


A Day in the Life of Darcy

by megster



Series: In These Small Hours [8]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megster/pseuds/megster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy's new normal isn't really very normal at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life of Darcy

Sometimes Darcy wonders when Clearance Level 5 and black-suited agents and superheroes and mutant platypuses became her brand of normal. 

(It probably started around the time that they hit a Norse god with a van. Or if she’s really honest with herself, when she took the job with S.H.I.E.L.D. against her better judgement. What can she say? She’s a sucker for adventure. Also for superheroes in tight suits.)

To be totally honest, it’s sort of weird. 

On some days, it’s totally awesome. Some days, it royally sucks. And some days, it’s just plain bizarre.

Today is one of the bizarre days.

Darcy, Steve, Clint, and Tony are on one end of Central Park handling the stray platypuses. Natasha, Phil, Thor, and Bruce are herding the main group into a S.H.I.E.L.D. supply truck.

 “Agent Coulson,” she says into her comm unit as she awkwardly sits on a platypus. “What the _fuck_ am I supposed to do here?”

“Don’t curse on the official comm lines,” Clint advises her, as he struggles to contain one of the aforementioned mutant platypuses.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Tony says. He’s holding one platypus under each arm, faceplate up, long-suffering look on his face.

“This is really, _really_ strange,” Steve says, with his usual penchant for stating the obvious. He is in a rather undignified position, sprawled across the grass with one platypus under his left leg, another one clutched in his arms, and another gnawing at his right boot.

“Miss Lewis, please get the press away from here. Damage control. I don’t want PETA on our asses. And then maybe go acquire us some mid-sized dog crates,” Phil says finally. He sounds a little out of breath, which is quite odd.

Then again, it’s an odd day.

_Well_ , Darcy thinks. _The guy can kill three men with an unsharpened pencil in under thirty seconds, but he’s out of breath wrestling platypuses_.

Yeah. It’s _that_ sort of day.

But she sort of nudges her platypus towards Clint, marches up to the small gaggle of cameras surrounding the struggling Avengers, and channels Pepper as much as possible as she says, “I’m very sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises and leave your memory cards with me.”

She flashes a shiny new S.H.I.E.L.D. badge (just got it this week), and to her surprise, all six of the cameramen hand over their cards. They must be rookies.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she says, pocketing the memory cards. She’ll go through them later. “The Avengers or their press representative will be available for questions regarding this incident within the next week. We’ll be in touch.”

She stands there, arms crossed, clearly sending off get-out-of-here now signals, telegraphing her desire to get them gone. It’s something she picked up from Phil within the first week of working with him.

It’s astonishingly effective.

The press dudes sort of melt away, and Darcy gives herself a moment to gloat before calling the nearest animal shelters and pet stores.

As it turns out, there aren’t too many shelters equipped to deal with mutant platypuses.

“Fine,” Darcy says, “But I need as many mobile kennels as you have available. I’ll be sending someone over to pick them up.”

The sputtering secretary at the shelter has no time to say no before Darcy hangs up.

A yelp from Clint redirects her attention, and she spins back around.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Darcy says, genuinely alarmed. “Is it _spitting acid_?”

“It appears so,” Tony says, sounding more interested than he should be. “They weren’t doing that a minute ago.”

“It stings,” Steve says, wincing as a stream of platypus acid (platypacid?) hits him in the face.

“No shit,” Clint snarls. His bare arms are striped with angry-looking welts. “Darce, can we hurry up the cages?”

Darcy looks around a bit frantically and her eyes fall upon the S.H.I.E.L.D. van they came in.

“How do we feel about a little improvisation?” she says, and before she quite knows what has happened, there are seven acid-spitting platypuses in the back of a black S.H.I.E.L.D. ops van and two irritated, welt-covered Avengers squeezed into the front partition with her (Tony isn’t covered in welts, although the acid has some corrosive properties, going by the state of his suit). 

The front of the van is only meant to seat two, and there are four of them.

Darcy ends up in Steve’s lap, which, okay, under normal circumstances would be totally okay and honestly kind of funny, but in this situation is sort of annoying, because it’s been a trying few hours and she can _hear_ the damn platypuses scuttling around in the back partition of the van and she had been planning to drive but then something happens and Tony ends up in the driver’s seat.

She raises an eyebrow at Clint.

Clint raises one back. “If you think I”m going to sit in Stark’s lap, you are sadly mistaken.”

Tony shrugs. “It’s that or the acid-spiting platypuses.”

Clint gets this I-have-an-idea sort of glint in his eyes and Darcy says, “Absolutely not,” even though she doesn’t know what he’s planning.

As it happens, she’s right. She should absolutely not allow this, but somehow it goes ahead and happens anyway, and she’s sitting in Captain America’s lap while Tony Stark drives a van with seven acid-spitting mutant platypuses in the back and a certain crazy archer clinging to the top of the vehicle as they speed through the streets of Manhattan.

“Phil is going to kill me,” Darcy sighs as they hit a particularly jarring pothole. “Can you _please_ not try to shake Clint off?”

“If I was trying to shake Clint off,” Tony says irritably, “He would already be rolling around on the street.” He does make an effort to avoid potholes after that, though.

It takes far too long for them to reach the others, and although Darcy logically knows that it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, it feels like forever. That probably has something to do with Tony’s less-than-pleasant driving, sitting on a blushing Steve’s lap, and Clint laying on _top_ of the fucking van.

So it’s with great relief that Darcy tumbles out of the van to greet her bemused boss. 

Phil’s more disheveled than she’s used to seeing him, and she fights to keep a smirk off of her face. 

“I don’t want to hear it, Miss Lewis,” he says with more gravity than she would have expected, considering the fact that he’s clutching a platypus with one arm and trying to keep all the rest from spilling out of the supply truck. “Do you have the kennels?”

“Um, about that,” Darcy says, and then Clint interrupts her, shouting, “No crates, but we got the rogue platypuses,” from the top of the van.

“Agent Barton,” Phil says. “Please get down from there and lend me some assistance.”

Clint cheerfully acquiesces.

“Miss Lewis,” Phil says. “Please go get us those kennels.”

“Right on it, sir,” Darcy says. “As soon as you get those acid-spitting fuckers out of the van.”

“That can be arranged,” Phil says, and gestures Natasha over to help Steve and Tony collect the strays.

Sometimes Darcy wonders when her job became this, a conglomeration of personal assistant and crime fighter and superhero babysitter and public relations representative and kennel fetcher for acid-spitting platypuses.

As it turns out, though, she really doesn’t mind. Platypuses, even acid-spitting ones, are sort of cute.


End file.
